All women have one thing in mind, all. And if they tell you otherwise, do not believe them.
Women love, even when they are wrong, even if they suffer.
They live to love. They eat, sleep, breathe and sweat by love.
First story of a series ... to read in leather boots.
My little wildcat
She does not know how long it will last. In front of the gas stove offered by her grandmother, she sniffles.
At the dawn of the dawn, the kitchen will be blue. But she doesn’t know it yet.
She raises the thick meat from his cold frigolite bed. She feels rising in her the taste of blood.
On the steel worktop, a large kitchen knife, sharpened. She squeezes the handle in the palm of her hand and scratch a line in the worktop.
In her flowered apron, a crumpled letter. A stolen letter.
She’s always been a little thief. So what? Nobody writes such beautiful letters to her. No one. Nobody has ever written to her.
Here we are, she cries on cold meat. In its way, the cow also had to cry when she felt she was going to be a cool square, certified from the slaughterhouse. Maybe not? She doesn’t care. Or she wants to.
She slips a finger into the butter, soften by the warm air. Slips and slips again, one finger, then another.
Then, the whole hand goes into the smooth, soft, warm fat.
Outside the dark night does not yet speak about the birds of dawn ... Tomorrow.
Words will be for tomorrow.
Words about this letter? No! This letter is for her; she found it, she will not give him. No one ever wrote to her, no one.
The letter says:
“ I touched your skin and I realized it was me I touched through you. That our souls were sisters, and that we saw the first day of the world together. ”
The first day of the world, she would like to fuck of. Because the first day of the world, it’s him. Or "nobody". The “nobody” who writes love letters she crush and crush again between buttered fingers.
Now she is buttered hands full, apron full … full up to the back teeth.
And she plunges again into the pat of butter ... As the child takes alone, with his voracious way, the food his mother would still give to him.
She tastes the butter, salty … licks herself. Then she daubs her face.
She believes she becomes crazy.
In front of the gas stove offered by her grandmother, she will go mad, like her grandmother.
Now, she touches the knife ... Her stomach tightens.
He comes in.
He does not ask her what she cooks. Nor why butter on her face ...
He looks at her appearance: negligee on leather boots.
He doesn’t ask furthermore about the sound of crumpled paper in her flowered apron, over the negligee...
He approaches her, whispered softly, with a naughty smile: "You turn me on, little wildcat! "
She breathes faster.
She sighs: "It's been so long ..." But he does not listen. He comes closer ...
The night comes into her, everywhere. She feels it like a warm shower in winter.
The windows are open and the sky is so dark that there is no more sky.
She grabs the kitchen knife left on the worktop, squeal it again on the steel. She turns and looks at him.
He comes closer without touching her. He is there.
Very close. He does not speak. He sticks to her.
She said: "It's been so long".
In response, he pushes away her hand with the knife, and sticks again, harder, to her.
He shoves her forward.
His chest rises up, against her back. And now his sex, stretched, against her who gently moves ...
And it makes waves, powerful waves like the sea.
She looks at the sharp knife, still holding it in her hand, right in front of her ...
She breathes, loudly, as a torrent of tears and cries.
But there are none, tears and cries.
He takes a deep breath in him, as if he would inhale her.
She doesn’t speak.
Then he comes with his lips, on her, on her neck. With his tong, he recognizes the taste of butter. She burns. He sniffs her, licks sea salt on her cheek.
She raises the meat. The warmed meat, in the sweet heat of the night.
His man hands. His soft and strong hands on his wife's buttock.
She lights the gas and put the pat of butter in the pan, melted and flabby, like a girl lying for hours in the sun.
The butter turns brown, singes, already.
He will say something.
But she throws the meat that screams, sears, and immediately shrinks.
The meat is crying. The letter moves, again, on her warm belly. This hungry and demanding belly. Something heavy and deep. Something good. Something being filling and animal.
She drops the knife.
The kitchen turns blue. Like gorgonzola mushrooms he just took out of the fridge and he undress from its cellophane.
But what burns this woman, when she turns back and looks at this man, in the dark night?
Her eyes say words. But these words fly in the black smoke from the forgotten meat in the pan.
Her apron, the butter, her face, her hands and her legs: everything shakes.
And now he comes back, close to her. Belly on belly. To offer her his outstretched sex.
She looks into his eyes and feel the rising emotion of love. Then she asks, nearly aggressive: "Do you love me, tell me?"
In his eyes, there are almost tears ...
And now she thrills, she becomes wet, she cracks ... and now she slips a hand into the pocket of the apron to the piece of paper she will makes a ball with ... and throw in the fire;
"Asshole!" she says.
And she pulls him to her sharply, and he penetrates her.
He softly whispers naughty words in her ear, grumpy laughs: "Little plague! Little whore who refused for so long...!
I love you, if you knew ... I love you like crazy! "
At the dawn of the dawn ... A man takes a woman or a woman takes a man.
No words being said. While burning on the fire …a steak and gorgonzola, blue.
On the worktop behind them, a forgotten knife ...
Outside the dark night does not yet speak about the birds of dawn …
Tomorrow. Words will be for tomorrow.
And after the words? Desire? Burning? Stronger, even than before...?
Pictures credits 1 (Raphaelle Bouillon) / 2-3-4
The french version of this novel can be read here
Raphaelle
Actress and storyteller, organizer of philosophical and writing workshops, I’m passionate about the complexity and paradoxes of human relationships
This is my first novel translated in English. Please apologize any grammatical error. All comments and suggestions are welcome.
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